Raise a little hell
by BeforeTheStorm15
Summary: "What'd you say, sugar? A pair o' dreamers like us against the world?" The cigarette dangles from his lips like the strand of a dream. She reaches out, takes it up to her own lips and smirks, blowing out smoke in a slow release. "I say sure thing, baby." A Bonnie&Clyde AU.
1. Prologue

**Summary**_: "What'd you say, sugar? A pair o' dreamers like us against the world?" The cigarette dangles from his lips like the strand of a dream. She reaches out, takes it up to her own lips and smirks, blowing out smoke in a slow release. "I say sure thing, baby."_

**A/N: **So, recently, I've fallen head over heels in love with broadway musicals, and when I watched Bonnie & Clyde the other evening, I felt compelled to write this, so voila. It'll mainly be following the musical, with my attempt at throwing in some 1920s/30s slang.

I suspect it will be in around three or four large-ish chapters, but as always, if anyone recommends it differently, I'm always open to ideas.

As for the names, I kept Emma Swan/Killian Jones because I wanted to take an original spin on the story, and I plan on adding a few twists here and there, so I hope you enjoy those too.

_x_

* * *

><p><em>"I won't get to heaven;<em>

_Why not raise a little hell?"_

_No way I'll see heaven;_

_So let's raise a little hell."_

_- "Raise a little hell" - _Bonnie and Clyde (2013)

* * *

><p><em>x<em>

_September, 1920._

_Rowena, America._

A church bell rings in summoning as a young child and her frustrated carer stray from the group of solemn gatherers. There's a quiet hush throughout the early morning, with coils of mist gradually spreading in a thin, murky line across the cemetery. The pair soon slow to a reluctant halt. Leaving the progression to head on inside the church, the mother sighs when a small hand tugs at her dirtied sleeve.

Another gong sounds in reminder, but Bonnie Parker ignores it, and bends to kneel next to the young girl; whose dainty head is bowed. Something inside the mother almost breaks as her child's usually bright eyes brim with tears. With framed eyelashes glistening against the backdrop of the bleak graveyard, Bonnie realises there's little warmth to be found this day.

"Please don't make me go in there, mama." The young girl cries.

"Shh, baby. Oh, don't cry!"

Reaching out to swipe away the tiny river of tears staining her pale cheeks, the older woman manages a small smile. "You know it makes mama sad to see her baby girl cry so." She says, gently.

This seems to have the undesired effect, as her words only appear to make the young girl's sobs grow louder. After a minute or two, Bonnie tugs the child to her chest in a close embrace. She begins to weave a soothing hand through her daughter's blonde curls, blocking out the next loud bell tong.

"I…wanna…"

Bonnie's hand freezes mid-stroke.

She pulls back and smiles warmly at her daughter. Despite the sadness of this gathering, it's the least she can do to comfort her one and only child. God may have put the Parker family through hell recently, but all the more reason to stay strong, and stay together.

"What do you want, my darling girl? What is it? Tell mammy."

The young girl sniffs, and then her shoulders straighten as she thrusts her chin in the air and, with surprising determination for a child mourning the loss of a parent, announces, "I wanna be like Clara Bow!"

Bonnie gapes.

Anger suddenly rushes to her cheeks, flaming them to a cruel scarlet. She raises a hand to slap the young child, before thinking better and pulling her roughly to her feet instead. Paying no attention to the squeals of protest, Bonnie grabs the girl and hisses, "Emma Parker Swan. We are at your _father's funeral_. I understand this is hard on you, but none of these foolish words again! I will have none of it, do you understand?"

She pulls Emma by the hand, roughly and impatiently, praying to the lord for just a little more strength to get through this day alive.

But He doesn't reply.

And so Bonnie practically hauls her daughter into the church, avoiding the curious looks of fellow friends and family, and finishes in a hushed, angry whisper. "Be on your best behaviour, sweetheart." She warns. "Now, come _on_…"

Emma doesn't pay attention to the service.

Instead, she closes her eyes and flashes of black and white movies and lipstick smiles paint a new and happy life into her thoughts. Dressed in dazzling dresses of elegant crème and crimson, the life of a movie star sings to the young child, and she images being whisked away into a silent world of songs and laughter. All eyes on her, waiting and watching in awe.

Where no one dies and everyone lives forever. A legacy running across the world in a million screens.

That thought alone brings Emma completely joy. Those hopeful dreams of getting the hell out of Texas and riding the highroad to fame and fortune. Waving goodbye to dirt roads and saying hello to open roads, camera lights and screaming fans.

She's not a selfish child. Not really. Perhaps a little self-occupied and boldly determined, but certainly not selfish. She understands life a great deal more than her mother, or anyone else, suspects. But the bright lights of Hollywood are an escape she'll dream of till the end of her days. An escape from death itself.

And so, blocking out the choir's sweet songs, she hums _'downhearted blues_' as quietly as possible, and repeats a quiet prayer – a promise – throughout the service;

_I'm gonna be just like Clara Bow._

_Just like Clara Bow._

_Clara…_

_x_

The following day presents another nightmare for the young Emma Swan.

"Why do we have to leave home, mamma?"

Bonnie sighs, and presses a quick kiss to her daughter's forehead as they watch the train chug into the station with a dozen other eager passengers. "Baby, I told you why a million times already."

"But…but why _now_?" The young girl asks, all wide eyed and innocent. She toys with the hem of her dress - a pretty cotton smock of blue and gingham - and coyly hides her left hand behind the billowing fabric.

Knowing fore well she's looking for trouble, her mother frowns, but turns her head to keep her eyes fixed firmly on the train approaching. She's in no mood for games. "I know you ain't no fool, Emma." She coolly replies. "Don't you go actin' like one now, you hear me?"

No protests are given to this, yet after a moment, as the whistle of the train grows louder and more urgent, Bonnie softens her voice. "With your father bein' gone, we can't afford no place like Rowena. Your grandma's been nice enough to take us in, over in West Dallas, and we're gonna act grateful to be there. Right, baby? -"

She turns to Emma, ready to smile warmly, but what she sees makes her smile drop instantly, and her grip on the suitcase loosen altogether.

"Oh, lord!"

A cigarette now dangles between the young girl's lips, poking out playfully between her teeth in a proud display.

Should anyone notice, Emma is also grinning like she's just won a role in a Hollywood movie, but all Bonnie sees is horror. Whilst the cigarette is unlit, it stokes waves of worry inside her mind. She sees images of her young daughter draped around sleazy men, intoxicated beyond dignity, and bites back a gasp.

"Throw that filthy thing away, Emma." She snaps hotly. "This instance!"

Emma doesn't seem to mind her mother's harsh tone, but she does indeed nod, and drops the cursed object with a small, dreamy smile. It lands on the floor just a few feet away and rolls until it touches the side of her daughter's polished shoe, as though refusing to leave her alone.

By now, the train has approached, and though Bonnie busies herself with the task of occupying not one, but two free seats in the nearest carriage, the image of a cigarette dangling from her young daughter's soft lips refuses to disappear.

* * *

><p><em>January, 1921.<em>

_Arizona, America._

_x_

_Bang!_

Aimed with skilled precision, the bullet reaches its target with glee, and the glass bottle smashes into tiny pieces. It scatters at random around the field, leaving behind an empty barrel and a smoking gun.

A young boy of around ten or eleven grins proudly. The small gun still smokes in pretty swirls around the open air, and he watches the smoke dip and circle for a moment or two before reaching up to take aim at the next lined up bottle on the following barrel.

His forefinger barely brushes the trigger before -

"Nifty shot, little brother."

The shooter doesn't pause, save for a slight head jerk of acknowledgment, and aims the gun again. Silence is only broken by the second shot, which hits the bottle a little to the left before breaking it beyond repair.

The older brother cheers again. "Attaboy!"

This time, he turns, and finds his older brother, Liam Barrow Jones, watching from a safe distance. His lean arms loop casually around the wooden gate, and he toys with a ciggy in-between his smirking lips. He's only a few years older - fourteen last month, to be exact - but has developed an instant fondness to the damn things. As soon as he's done shooting, Liam swings over the gate – _show off,_ his younger brother thinks – and joins the kid in the field.

He tosses his younger brother's hair, laughing when he moves away with Liam a grunt of displeasure.

"So, Killian. Care for a beat session?" His lips curl teasingly, and he raises an eyebrow. "Or are you too busy training to be the next Al Capone?" Liam acts out a fatal shoot-out scene, western style, and laughs once more.

Killian scowls. "Beat it." He snaps, reloading the gun. "I got no time for idle chit chat."

"Outlaw-in-training. I see."

Killian grins. _Finally_.

He whirls around and shoves Liam, though it is more playful than threatening. He drops the gun and mimes pulling one out, aims it at his big brother and waits for Liam to play along. "When I grow up, the world will be _begging_ for just a _glimpse_ of the famous outlaw, Killian Jones!"

"Please, sir, take whatever you want!" Liam cries, throwing his hands in the air and falling to his knees.

Killian grins, playing along. "Well, well. Ain't that swell."

The pair share a laugh.

No one could ever condemn Liam Jones for acting a fool for his loved ones. He'd spend hours with his brother, happily practicing shooting, running, or setting up elaborative standoffs, in which Killian would always win.

After their game is over, and Liam is 'dead' – for the fourth time that week – the pair head across the field in quiet companionship.

"So. You're really gonna fight the law, huh?"

"I'm gonna fight the _world!_" Killian corrects quickly. He spreads his arms wide, free and liberated, and throws his head back to stare up at the blue sky. "The world will be begging for just a glimpse of the famous, Killian Jones! They'll be linin' up for autographs an' all. Everyone will know us –"

"Us?"

He pauses at the gate, and Liam turns to him with an amused look. Brushing the surface, there is a little hidden concern in the older brother's face. Buried within the one-too-few creases etched into his forehead, and the way his lips waver, but he hides it from his kid brother and waits.

Killian shrugs. He scratches his ear once – a habit tell of embarrassment – and feels his face begin to flush.

Thankfully, Liam breaks the silence and swings back over the gate, before turning back around to ponder for a moment. "We'd be the fearsome Jones Brothers!" He announces with a cheer.

His brother's head lifts in surprise.

"Unstoppable heroes battling against the world!"

Reaching over the wooden slab, Killian happily hops over to the other side and joins in. "Know what they'll say? They'll say; '_Billy the Kid and Al Capone ain't got nothing on the Jones brothers_. _Those brothers are legends_!"

Liam chuckles, throwing an arm around his brother. He adds, "Though I suspect we'd have to get the hell outta Arizona first…"

"Let's."

"Well, uh…"

"What?"

Killian stops then, frowning up as his big brother, so usually warm and open, looks away and shoves his hands inside his pockets.

"Funny you should say that." Liam says quietly. He lets it sink in for a moment, waiting for the inevitable storm to brew. He offers Killian an apologetic shrug. "We got no choice. We gotta leave, Killian. Ma says we gettin' kicked out again. We don't own the land, after all."

"When?"

"Ma's loading the wagon as we speak."

"Bloody hell."

Liam watches Killian kick at a nearby flock of seagulls in anger and waits before continuing. They've done this before. A lot, actually. Moving around whenever the law decided they had enough time to kick their tents around and find any plausible excuse to demand they leave.

He understands Killian's frustration, but decides to try and appeal. "It ain't anyone's fault, you know that right?" He tries to put his arm around him again but Killian shrugs it off this time. "Ma and Pa do the best they can in this damn world, so don't go givin' them a hard time for it, will you?"

They carry on up the path, embraced by the quiet early morning of a warm July day, and Killian's shoulders eventually begin to square. By the time the brothers reach the site they call home – temporary home – he's even been allowed to throw his arm back around Killian's shoulder.

A little later on, Killian asks, "Where we movin' to this time?"

"West Dallas."

"Sounds like a shithole."

Liam laughs at that. "Probably is." He admits. "But we got no choice."

Noticing Killian's sour expression, he quickly tugs him over and stabs a forefinger at his jaw – careful not the piss him off even more. "Hey. Chin up and smile, little outlaw. Who knows what's out there? You might find somethin' good. And remember, one day, you're gonna screw this world over with nothing but a .45, right?"

This time, Killian's smile is proud. "You're damn right."

x

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><p><strong>Note<strong>: Updates shall be relatively regular, I hope, but that depends on my college schedule :)


	2. Part 1 - The Setup

**A/N:** This story should be split into about five parts, but I'll see how it shapes up. Enjoy :)

* * *

><p><em>x<em>

_July 30__th__, 1931. Dallas City courtroom. _

"You know what? You were right." Killian Jones rattles the handcuffs a little, manoeuvring his thumbs to test the leeway before turning to the man standing beside him. They wait impatiently on the stand to hear the judge's verdict.

"About what?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have stolen that bicycle after all –"

This sparks a reaction. "Fucking _hell_, Killian." He snaps. Fortunately, the court room has not settled into a formal silence yet, so his curses go unnoticed. "Is everything a joke to you?"

Killian shrugs. "No. It isn't," He continues to fumble with the lock for a few moments, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. With a sigh, he finally surrenders to patience and leaves the lock alone. But his lips curve into a wicked grin. "I actually was rather fond of that bike."

Another string of curses echo from his right.

"Relax, mate. Petty crime gets you no more than a year. Two, max."

That does little to sooth David Nolan, who scowls but remains quiet, watching the room instead. "You know I don't give a damn about that bike. It's everything else that'll keep us locked up."

The court continues to fill up, awaiting the morning trials with mixtures of boredom, anxiety and fear warped into their features. A nervous twitch here, a wary look there. Killian studies them all with care.

_Which one of you bastards will decide my fate today?_

"At least Liam got out with community service."

Killian snorts, mixed anger and gratitude over his brother's avoidance of prison. "Small mercies." Due to Liam's practically spotless record, the judge adorned his court a day earlier than Killian and David's trial to announce his charges were being dropped in exchange for community service.

_Lucky bugger. _

He's about to make a saintly reference, when a voice calls for silence.

"All rise for the judge."

_Hilarious, _Killian thinks dryly_. Another bloody joke to our so-called society. _

The two guards standing behind shift closer to the pair, hands hovering by the guns resting in their holsters. It's a warning: do not run. Run, and you die. After brief formalities have been given, and typers are set to type, and judges are set to judge, Killian and David are prompted forwards to hear their verdicts.

"Case 36. Killian Jones, aged twenty-six, and David Nolan, aged twenty-seven. You have been found guilty and are set to be charged with the following crimes. Should you attempt to deny any of the following, state it clearly and investigations will be explored. However, be warned that should you be found guilty still, the charges may extend. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Killian simply nods.

"Count one: stealing poultry from a John Fraser, aged fourty-five on the night of July 20th. We believe the number was four chickens and two pigs. Do you challenge this crime?"

"No, your honour."

"No."

"Let it be noted that Killian Jones and David Nolan have confessed to count one. Now, let us move onto the following charge…"

It takes all he has not to sigh in frustration. _Bloody hell, get on with it._

After half an hour of drilling for information, clarification and confirming, Killian and David are charged on all three accounts. One, stealing poultry, of which the judge failed to mention, was out of starvation, not a desire to steal.

_Missed that out, didn't you? Bastards, the lot._

The second charge was auto theft, and when David shot his friend a furious glare, Killian could only grin proudly. He confirmed that one with an honest smile.

He'd had his eye on that sleek, all-black Fordor for months, and had seen a golden opportunity when some slick asshole in a bowler hat left it sitting all lonely on the road one evening. Of course, he returned it. He was many things, but not an idiot. Knowing the law would hunt it down, he simply drove around town for a day or two, enjoying the freedom of an open road, before returning it in wonderful condition.

Surprisingly, the owner had still called the sheriff.

Other, smaller charges were read out. The occasional side-job of cracking safes, or stealing cars and selling them on via black markets and trade, and one charge of robbing a small store a few miles out of Dallas.

The charges were read and confirmed, one by one. There was little point in lying, both men knew this. Innocent or guilty, all Killian and David represented to the court was lower life scum.

Low life scum who were easy to discard.

"Killian Barrow Jones and David Holt Nolan, you have been found guilty of one account of robbery, one account of auto theft, and four known accounts of unlawful trade. You are both hereby sentenced to two years at the McLennan County Jail. Court adjourned."

The jarring slam of the gavel against the wood echoes in Killian's thoughts for a long time. The painful sound is abrupt. Like the destruction of a life halfway lived.

He also notes David's sweetheart, Mary-Margaret, a pretty, dark-haired lady with a sharp wit, watching tearfully from behind the stand, and only when the pair say a brief goodbye does he feel any guilt to dragging a good man down with him.

As the camera snaps his first – and probably not the last – mugshot, Killian does his best to block out the surrounding noise. There are too many whispers and faces watching from the shadows of awaiting cells. Fear isn't usually in his repertoire, but prison is hardly a haven.

_Two years is nothin', _he reassures himself. He keeps his head bowed as he trails after the prison guard, towards his new home of two years. _Every outlaw spends time behind bars. Consider this an initiation._

They turn a corner, the angry shouts and desperate moans seeming to tighten his skin around his bones, as though protecting his body from the world like armour. The guard gestures to an open cell, and Killian walks in without protest, taking in the freezing chill, lightless room the size of a tent, and the sickening aroma of blended sweat, vomit and shit. The darkness swallows him in, holding him like an embrace; away from the outdoors, and the world. Outside, his future awaits.

_All darkness breaks at dawn._ He closes his eyes and repeats. _And when I get outta there, this world will remember me…_

* * *

><p><em>x<em>

_One year later, 1932. Granny's Diner, West Dallas._

"Hey, what's a fella got to do to get a goddamn refill?"

She sighs.

_How about you don't be a jackass?_

"Comin' right up." She manages a breezy reply. Offering the current customer a polite smile, she turns towards the brazen caller and manages to discard the urge to wring his neck – or her own – before she reaches the back table.

He – an elder man roughly in his late forties – stares at her without shame as she approaches. His grin is far from encouraging. "About damn time, honey." He snaps. She decides to ignore this and begins to hums a little tune inside her thoughts instead.

The man continues to grin. The leather-line chair squeaks as he pulls out a little, puffs up his chest in the typical manner of conceited tom cats toying with baby mice, and folds one leg over the other. "You know," He begins. "It's a good thing you're easy on the eye,"

She bristles.

"Else a man may seek his coffee elsewhere…"

The flashing smile that follows on the waitress' face appears carefree, yet look a little closer and it becomes clear that disdain lies underneath. Hidden behind the smooth surface of rouged lips and powdered cheeks. Those red-painted lips curl slightly, and the dark-rimmed eyelashes blink once, like the trigger of a gun; armed with the hidden anger of the frustrated, young Emma Swan. She debates making the customer – a regular who waggles his eyebrows too often for her liking – wait a little longer, just to regain a sense of victory, but the idea soon slips from her mind.

_He ain't worth it, Emma._ She warns. _Just smile and pour the coffee. _

It helps her to imagine the sneering man under different circumstances. In another life, he'd be just another face in a crowd of swarming, desperate reporters. Their noses pressed at sharp angles against the glass in a desperate attempt to snap a single picture of her latest outings. Emma hides a small sigh as she fills the man's mug to the brim once again. In another life, she wouldn't be serving coffee to an asshole with sickening arrogance. She'd be lost in a brilliant blaze of headlines and eternal fame.

Hollywood still planted firmly in her dreams, she holds the coffee pot in her hands and waits a moment for the man to inspect. He shrugs, but makes no further complaints; save for a tiny smirk that sends a tiny shiver of warning along her nerves.

"Anything else?" Emma asks. Her face remains as passive as contempt allows it to.

"Well, if you're askin' –"

A grubby hand shoots up her dress.

She jumps with a start. "Hey!"

Gripping her thigh in a tight clasp, the man leers with vicious lust flashing in his dark eyes. He even has the nerve to wink. It's as though he sees himself as a hero; as some charming knight from a fairy-tale, who seems confused as to why publically assaulting a woman isn't viewed as honourable…

"Easy there, girl." He chuckles, loosening his grip to trail his fingertips along her skin. "What can a fella do to get a little extra something around here?"

Emma regains composure enough to tear his hand away and take a few hasty steps backwards.

_Didn't your mama teach you not to touch things that don't belong to you? _She wants to yell now. To scream and claw his goddamn eyes out with her painted nails. _That'll teach you not to mess with me. Or any woman. I'd be doing the world a favour and a half. _

Instead, she begins to turn away, ignoring his request with a cold look.

_I ain't supposed to be here…_

She looks around, at the small, cosy, yet cramped diner. Filled with its usual handful of customers, _Granny's_ is hardly a gloomy nightmare, but it's far from heaven.

_Even further from Hollywood_, Emma thinks sadly.

Spurred on by growing anger, she turns once more to the man – his eager grin now having faded to a bitter scowl – and snaps, "Go to hell."

Bad decision.

"You little hussy!" He cries, throwing back his chair as he stands. His height looms over the room, casting a shadow between Emma and the natural sunlight spilling into the windows. "Who do you think you are givin' me lip –"

"Is there a problem here?"

What could easily have escalated into a disaster – though more so for Emma than the enraged customer – was quickly disputed by the cool voice of a third party.

Everyone in the diner has now paused to see the development. A few hushed whispers or nervous looks are exchanged before the onlookers fade into silence again, awaiting the next move.

The man, still standing, relaxes his shoulders and unclenches his fists into a friendly stance. He smiles. "Not at all, sheriff." He welcomes the other man. To shrug it off even further, he even has the insolence to offer Emma warn grin. "I was just complimentin' the lovely lady. No harm done, right, doll?" The plastic smile wavers just a moment into a firm line; a warning. She understands the message clearly: silence.

_What I wouldn't give for a lighter right now_. She thinks distantly. _I'd burn this whole place down to the ground. Me and all._

Moments like this are what make Emma regret not stealing away on the nearest bus to Hollywood. Money or no money, she wouldn't care, as long as there would be a taste of freedom to add to a pile of drab and discoloured memories. It was always her dream. To run away and never look back. To work hard and become a star the world would never forget. She craved the fame for its freedom. An unreachable freedom to conjure a new personality with every new day. To escape and leave behind the horrors of a run-down reality.

But this was all Emma had: broken dreams and false hope.

"Ms Swan?"

She blinks. "Hm?"

Snapping back to the situation at hand, she finally acknowledges the third speaker's presence. He's dressed sharply – and handsomely – in the usual beige uniform of the law, with his crisp shirt tucked neatly in at the waistband, where his hand rests carefully beside the gun handle. The warm, friendly disposition he's well-known for is replaced by a fierce glare, aimed directly at the back of the customer's balding head. He turns back to Emma and she lets out a small sigh, relieved to see the small smile replacing the clinical anger he'd been wearing a few moments before.

"Is there a problem I can help you with?" The sheriff asks quietly. His hand still rests just above the gun, but she's certain the situation has been disputed with his arrival.

She gives a small shake of the head. "No, but…thank you, sir." She meets his uncertain look, eyes still occasionally flicking towards the hovering customer awaiting his fate, and actually managed a smile this time. "I appreciate the offer, but everything's fine. Really."

There's a moment after where Emma wonders if he's going to protest, but sensing her anxious glances, the sheriff lets his hands drop to his sides and straightens into a comfortable position. "Very well." He says, quietly to her. His lips then thin into an unforgiving line. "Your coffee is no doubt cold by now, so may I suggest you leave now, Tom." He states it, not asks, with direct threat.

The tips of his ears and nose bright red, Tom mutters out his farewells before rushing out of _Granny's_. He doesn't leer or attempt to grab her on the way out.

He even leaves behind a tip.

Refusing to meet the sheriff's open gaze, Emma rushes back behind the counter and busies herself with restocking random shelves. She's in a quick mood to forget the entire thing, so when she hears the familiar squeaking of a bar stool behind occupied, she turns back around and shoots a warning look. "No, I don't want to report Tom, alright? He's a bastard, but he's not worth your time. Promise me you'll leave it be, Graham? Please. It's not worth it."

Graham sighs, running a hand through his short hair in agitation. "Harassment _is_ a crime, Ms Swan."

"Stop calling me that. You never used to."

"Well, you weren't married before."

At that, she slaps her hands down over the desk and begins to feel a furious heat colouring her cheeks an ugly pink. "Don't. Just, don't." She warns in a hiss.

The sheriff looks surprised by her sudden anger, but doesn't flinch away. "Look around." She gestures wildly with her arms. "Do you see my husband anywhere, hm? No. Me neither." Perhaps it's the combination of pent-up frustration and the misfortunes of that afternoon, but waves upon waves of irritation and disappointment seem to be washing over her all at once.

Graham opens his mouth to protest, but then he hesitates, simply watching with quiet concern.

A minute or two passes then, and Emma returns to stacking shelves in silence. She waits for Graham to get up and leave, but he remains seated. She's grateful when customers begin chatting and re-creating the relaxed environment she's come to know and appreciate, but the guilt settles in until she can no longer bear it.

"Sorry. Bad day."

She looks up then, relieved to see a smile returning to Graham's handsome face. "I know."

And just like that, her guilt eases.

Just as it often did with Graham Humbert. Sheriff since his kindly father died a few years back; Graham had lived in West Dallas since birth, and was respected as a regular hero in the eyes of the locals. He'd captured crooks and robbers and murderers across the state. There was even a rumour that he'd been involved in the capture of great outlaws like John Ashley and George Birdwell. Despite being friends since kids, Emma was still working up the courage to ask for details on those hearsays.

Instead, she lets the last traces of anger fade into an apologetic smile. "The usual?" She offers Graham, and then adds, "On the house?"

He returns the smile warmly. "Sold."

Whilst she quietly busies herself with fixing his order, she listens to Graham offering titbits of news and announcements from around the town. Though she makes sure to nod and comment occasionally, Emma's thoughts are otherwise occupied. The event still plays in a black and white loop, over and over again like a broken film reel inside her mind. Tom was hardly the first customer to step out of line. In fact, it'd happened a lot since everyone believed her husband was gone for good.

_Well, he is, ain't he?_

Shoving a slice of pie onto the nearest china plate, Graham's voice – currently relaying the story of two criminal friends who are rumoured to be plotting an escape from prison - continues to slowly fade out. She absently begins to stir the coffee and lapses into thoughts again.

_Momma warned me, but I didn't listen. She was right as usual. She'd said, 'Emma Swan, don't you marry that boy. He won't bring you any good. Just you wait for the right man. Just you wait.'_

But Emma did not wait.

The year had been 1926, and she was wildly in love for the first time in her youthful life. Convinced that she and her then childhood sweetheart, Baelfire Cassidy, were destined for greatness, they'd dropped out of high school and married the next day with a handful of friends ,Baelfire's parents and Emma's reluctant mother, Bonnie, as witness. There was even a welcoming celebration at the local club, but nothing had mattered to the young pair save for their union.

For a few months, it was heaven. They'd planned on saving up and buying their own place as soon as possible, perhaps moving to California by the end of the year if things worked out well.

Alas, they didn't.

Baelfire was arrested shortly after their fourth month spent as spouses. She'd feared it for a while actually; having noticed her husband's odd returns home late at night, or the twitching looks towards the front door every once in a while. He'd even taken to sleeping beside a gun. Desperate pleas to talk were given on Emma's part. She begged, cried, and finally, demanded to understand what had caused his changes, but he'd quickly shake off her worries with a cold glare, or leave the room whenever she asked to talk.

Whatever business he'd become involved in, it sent his ass to prison for a year and a half.

Three years later, Emma still hadn't seen her husband.

_The bastard. _She grinds her teeth. _Doesn't even send money._ Returning her attention to Graham's order, she grabs a napkin and begins to stir sugar and milk into the steaming mug. But anger still swells.

_Well, I hope you're happy. Wherever you are in hell, I hope there are all the scumbags and top dogs you can shake hands with. _

Who knew where Baelfire was now? Certainly not Emma. She had checked with the station two years ago – to see if there was any chance of visiting - and been surprisingly informed that her husband's sentence had in fact, been revoked altogether. He was free, somewhere, but hadn't come home. Only after she'd received a note in the post, from an unnamed address, containing a wedding band had she finally accepted the truth. Whatever mess he was involved with, it had taken control of the man she fell in love with. Baelfire Cassidy was long gone.

_And I'm still stuck here_. She stabs a fork into the pie. _Thanks_.

After Emma made the decision to stay within the comforts of the new family home, whatever money they'd been saving up was given to Bonnie Swan, now the legal owner of the house after her grandmother passed away in 1924. Three years had passed since Baelfire's release, and still no word, but she was done waiting around for him to return.

_Where else can I go? _Sliding the plate carefully over to Graham, along with the coffee mug, Emma presses her palms against the counter, enjoying the cool metal beneath her fingers. _It's not like I can go hitch a ride to Hollywood with nothing but a suitcase filled with creased dresses and $10 to my name -_

"So, you'll come?"

"Hm?"

She blinks, refocusing to find disappointed, grey eyes staring back at her.

"Will you come, Emma?" Graham repeats slowly. He breaks off a small piece of pie, toying with it by circling it around the plate and then breaking off the crust. There's a quiet tension growing with each passing second, and she knows an important question has been asked.

If only she'd been paying attention.

After a moment, Graham raises his head and quietly says, "Dreaming only gets you so far, Ms Swan."

The tension – only describable as the leftovers of a missed opportunity – constricts around Emma, as though regret has taken a form and possessed her from the inside out. It numbs her anger quickly until all she wishes to do is restore the balance.

"Okay. I'll go."

Graham doesn't miss a beat. "Go where?"

_Damn_.

She winces, caught out. "Out for a walk or some_where_…?" She trails off, tilting her head and smiling sweetly at her old friend.

"I'm a man of the law, Emma." He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't hide the growing smile matching her own. A forkful of pie hovers in the air as he laughs, "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Oh, please. You love me."

Graham coughs suddenly. She smiles and offers him a glass of water from the tap, but this time, doesn't notice the lingering emotion in his grey eyes.

"Now what was the question?"

"Right. Yes." He takes a sip of coffee, fingers curled protectively around the mug. "Uh, I thought maybe you would like to join me for an evening out this Saturday. James Whiteford is holding a get-together, and I would hate to turn up alone." He raises an eyebrow in enquiry. "Do you remember James Whiteford? He went to school with us."

"I don't think so."

"Nor I, but I thought maybe you'd care for a night out."

Enjoying the return of their easy conversations, Emma grins over the counter and quips, "They gonna have a piano?"

His reply is also light. "Pretty sure there's a whole band gonna be there."

"Then, sure."

They spend a few minutes eating in companionable silence, and for the first time in a long while, Emma found a small hope of regaining the ability to dream again. The hope that there was still kindness in the world. Since her estranged husband's disappearance, Emma had struggled to maintain her dreams of making a name for herself in Hollywood. They were dreams that belonged to a wide-eyed young girl. A child looking beyond the stars and sky. All she held now was the bitter remains of lost ambition: settling in her soul like dust after a sandstorm.

Although there were people like Baelfire, and Tom, in the world, surely those like Graham and her mother – blessed with warm and good hearts - would fight to restore the balance.

"Hi there, ma'am. Any chance of gettin' a table for three?"

Emma looks up then to find a sweet-smiling, woman, maybe a couple years older than she is, waiting with an armed wrapped around two, young kids. The two boys prod and tease each other in loud whispers, and she can't help but smile fondly. "Of course." She says, catching Graham's eye to mouth a 'see you later' before leaving.

"I'd best be heading back to the station." The sheriff stands; plate diminished of pie, and tips his hat to the ladies in farewell. "Have a nice afternoon, all."

He catches her eye on the way out and she watches as his lips twitch into a small smile. "Seven o'clock." He reminds.

She tips an imaginary hat in return. "I'll be waiting."

However, call it what you will, fate, destiny, luck or misfortune, Emma Swan would have other plans that night. To be precise, you could pinpoint the moment of change at around two o'clock that afternoon.

For it so happened that ten minutes later, Killian Jones was more or less escaping jail.

* * *

><p>x<p>

"Why the hell did I let you talk me into this?" David snaps, still a little breathless from running. "This is the worst idea you've ever had."

"Even worse than chicken-kidnapping?"

"Yes. Even worse."

Having received an earful of grumbles and protests for half an hour now, Killian waits till they're hidden amidst a collection of tall trees before turning to his friend with a warning look. "Look, are we hitchin' a ride out of this town or what?" He looks around in a quick survey of the forest. "The police will figure it out soon, and we're gonna want to be at least a hundred feet from this town before they do. "

For now, the pair are keeping out of sight from the main roads and cooping up inside a forest felt like a smart move. The light pours in through the trees, and the warmth calms him for a few moments. He'd missed this. Being outside and enjoying the sun. Even the next rainstorm or clapping thunder would feel like a welcoming home present in comparison to the shadowy nights of prison life.

David sighs, leaning his back against the nearest tree and thumbing with a small, square object in his hands. "I don't know, Killian. I…I've got to see Mary before we leave. You know I can't just run off without her."

The object finally clicks into place. It's a photograph. The one object he'd seen David stare at throughout his long nights in his cell. The only object he'd managed to smuggle inside. It was a small, warn photograph, but it captured Mary's bright smile and soft eyes as though she was alive inside the image.

Killian waits a moment. "Think she'd come?" He asks quietly.

"Who knows? It's been so long." When he replies, the tension is broken. David's voice is wistful as a hopeful smile tugs at his lips. "I must see her again."

He looks up then, creases lining his forehead in worry. Trembling fingers close around the photograph for support. "I have to go back…I'm sorry..."

_It's as though he expects me to argue. _Killian wonders, a little hurt by the thought. He and David have been friends for years, and prison had only strengthened that friendship with moral support. But Killian has never experienced love like David has, save for a while back.

_We don't think about her._ _Ever_. A slither of ice stabs and twists at his insides for a moment. A spark of brown eyes and dark hair curls into thought. A quiet laugh echoes, just outside of reach. _Milah_. Biting back a cry, he makes certain the thought is only a fleeting moment, before returning to David's issue at hand.

In the end, he can't help but fret that love will be his friend's downfall. After all, Killian has a heart; even if it has been tested along the way, and though his morals are often morally grey at best, he's a firm believer in following the heart. If his parents taught him anything, it's the lesson of strength and where it originates. Sometimes listen to the brain, other times; the gut. And more than often, true strength comes from the heart.

He walks towards his friend and places an arm on David's shoulder. He nods, once. "Well, best be quick about it then."

A grin breaks out of David's worried face.

_Excellent. I'm getting' soft._

"Here," Glancing around once more, Killian pulls out a spare round – one of a few he's stolen from the unconscious prison guard on their way out - and hands it over to his friend. "If it comes to it."

He then waits until the gun is loaded before continuing. "Do you remember our rendezvous point?"

David nods. "West Lake. Under the bridge, sunset." Slipping the weapon under his waistband, he carefully pockets the photograph and adds with a grin. "I take it you'll find somethin' to amuse yourself with?"

He ignores the suggestive remark and warns, "Any later, I'm leaving." They begin to retrace their steps through the trees, keeping on the smaller paths to avoid any early morning walkers. "You got it?"

"Fine. I hear you."

He picks up the frustration in David's voice and pauses to apologise. "Look, I'm sorry, mate, but we need to be careful. I'm not going back to that place again, and neither should you. Or any other prison for that matter. I'm starting again. You should too."

David thinks on this for a few moments, and then the anger clears into understanding. "Got it." He nods with a smile. The level of trust built between the two men has been strengthened for years, and he'll be damned if he starts questioning Killian's intelligence now. "Catch you later then." He says.

For some reason, he holds out a hand, and what frightens David is that his departure feels like a permanent farewell, though he can't place why.

Nethertheless, Killian shakes his friend's hand with a strong grasp – despite frowning at the hand for a moment beforehand – and offers an encouraging smile. "Best of luck, my friend."

"Be safe. See you soon."

_I hope._

* * *

><p><em>x<em>

Mary-Margaret, kind-heart schoolteacher of Dallas Elementary with a heart of steel, thought otherwise.

"What the _hell_ convinced you it was a smart move to _break out of jail?"_

"Well, I-"

"Was it Killian?" She demands, stepping closer to David as he carefully inches away. "What riches did he tempt you with this time? I may be a woman of God, but I'll kill that man if he's behind this. I swear, I will." Her hands are spread out and upwards in question, her eyes wide in anger, yet the odd tear falling softly every once in a while contrasts her livid fury.

"What? No –" David comes to a halt against the front door, wincing as his back presses into the wood at a sharp angle. "I wanted to. Get out. I mean –"

She leaves no time for any further explanation. "You only had seven months to go! Here I am praying for an early release and you go and break out with a criminal." The look in her eyes hardens in determination. "You're going back, David. Please. Go back..."

He gapes for a moment, replaying the words in silence. It feels like they're scratched into his thoughts for good.

About to bite back a solid 'no' in reply, he opens his mouth to protest, but then he catches Mary's expression and comes to a standstill. Gone is the livid anger, and in its place now rests a soft vulnerability bleeds into his heart. There is now a tiny smile rippling across and replacing the worry in her pale lips. The fear beneath the anger has finally revealed itself, and he curses inwardly for not understanding sooner.

Her lower lip begins to tremble. "It's been so long."

He reaches out and cups her cheek and the sound she makes will haunt him for a long time. Caught between a broken sob, and a happy cry, she propels forwards and pulls David into a tight embrace; her arms winding around his neck as she sniffs into his chest.

They stay, suspended against the door, for a short while, until Mary pulls back and pleads again. "You have to go back –"

David starts to shake his head and pull away, but she takes his head in her hands and holds his gaze steadily. "Listen to me. Please, just listen." She says firmly. "If you turn yourself in before they find you, there's the chance that your sentence will be shortened. At the very least, they'll admire your courage and let you carry out the rest without overtime. It's only eight months –"

He cuts her off then, with a sharp look. "Only eight months?" He repeats coldly. "That's a damn long time, Mary. I won't go back to that place. I can't. It made me long for hell. The guards would let prisons beat and torture the weaker ones. Sometimes they'd break 'em apart, but mostly not."

Stinging tears begin to burn his eyes, but he carries on, pacing around the floor of Mary's house and keeping his back to her as he speaks. "I watched men cry out for their loved ones. I turned away from men as they suffocated on their own blood. I…I watched good men _die_. There's no way I'll let them take me back alive."

He inhales sharply, breathless and running on blazing emotion. Finally gathering enough courage to turn back around, he meets his sweetheart's pained expression and feels his resolve crack. Crumbling like ash. "I'm not strong enough."

His hands reaches out to hold her, but she pauses, and brings it up, slowly, to her lips: brushing them across and soothing the spreading ache. A small sigh escapes his lips as he watches her. The light he'd been left lacking in now stands before him in all her beauty. In all her goodness – and yes, stubbornness too – he lets his heart be consumed by all she is and offers himself up in return. In silence still, Mary lays her head into his palms and steps closer until they're pressed together.

She speaks then. "You may not believe it, but you're a good person, David. I know you are. Somehow, I think you do too. Do the time, please…and then come home to me. We can start afresh. Anywhere you want."

He interrupts then, shaking his head softly. "I won't ask you to wait for me."

"I know." She grits her teeth at that, her arms folding over her chest. "Whether or not you ask, I will." When her chin juts out in a stubborn display, he resists the urge to laugh.

And then, it only takes one quick look for David to understand that there are no words left to bargain with. No last minute pleas or angry fights. Mary's iron gaze surpasses any arguments he could offer in exchange for his sentence. But she's right, as always. He ought to carry out his sentence. After all, he didn't get put in there for smirking at an officer. He acted with criminal intent, and was rightly found guilty.

Killian's stern gaze flashes briefly into his thoughts, but he quickly shakes his friend's scowl away and focuses on Mary's encouragement. David leans forwards and presses a small kiss to her forehead. "You do not owe me anything." He says after a moment. There are tears welling in both their eyes now, but somehow he feels the desire to keep her safe overriding his desires to be by her side forever. "Surely you know that?"

"I know."

"Good."

"But I love you," She adds. A chuckle warms the quiet afternoon with a little, greatly needed light. Her hand slips through this as she tilts her head up, smiling a brave and content smile. "And I want to spend my future with you. Only you. And when you're free, we'll head off to Mexico, just like we always dreamed, remember?"

David laughs at that, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into a close embrace. "I do."

"Oh! –" Her lips part to speak, but then close quickly. After a moment, she tilts her head to one side with a knowing grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Remember those words."

_She can't mean…_

_Does she?_

"Make it out, and I'll marry you, David Nolan."

He can't quite find the courage to say yes, so he kisses her, slowly and deeply, and hopes it conveys his love and unspoken commitment. Her hands curl around his grey jacket for a moment, lips still exploring his lower lips as he closes his eyes and waits for the moment to inevitably end.

When it does, Mary is the first to look up. Her eyes glint playfully, despite the occasional tear threatening to break the reminder of tomorrow, when he'll turn himself back in.

"So," Her lips twitch as her smile grows playful. "How are you going to spend your night, Mr Nolan?"

He returns to flirtation with a quick kiss, lingering only a moment to link their hands together. "Well, Ms Blanchet. Hopefully, with my future wife, should she consent...?"

And though they both laugh as they head up the stairs, Mary's hand shakes a little too violently, and David's damp palms are not related to the tiny sparks of desire forming as their kisses deepen.

Nethertheless, fear disappears.

Only for a moment. Hidden out of sight, for now, it waits beneath small kisses and lover's glances, lingering and ready and waiting to raise hell.

* * *

><p>x<p>

"That fucking _idiot_."

Crashing his heel into the deflated tire only causes another burst of expletives from Killian. He hisses and barks and curses, ranting to the car as though expecting to hear a sympathetic re-start as the car recovers.

"Bloody _car_. Bloody _David_. Bloody _America_."

_This night continues to bring gifts,_ he thinks with another aggressive kick aimed at the stolen number plate of his latest car. A temporary, of course. The one which he, David and possibly Mary had supposed to be fleeing in, in about…half an hour ago.

David had never been late.

_Ever_.

Not in the few years they'd been carrying out small crimes, or even general meet-ups and get-togethers. David Nolan was a man of his word.

Usually.

_So what changed your bloody mind, mate?_

But Killian already knows the answer. He knew it the moment David left to visit Mary, and he was a goddamn idiot not to have considered leaving the second afterwards.

The question still remained. Did he rush back and haul his friend's ass back on the road? Or leave and go on alone?

He hadn't planned to go solo just yet.

Perhaps in the future, but the sudden feeling of loneliness seeping into his skin was beginning to scare him more than he was willing to admit. His nails scraped angry marks across his palms as he listened to the stillness under the bridge. It was past sunset now. Far beyond the sun dipping behind the tall trees scattered around the rural landscape, and far beyond their arranged meeting time.

Anyone else, and Killian would have said 'fuck it' and left by now. But this was David Nolan. His friend of more than ten years, since the family's move to West Dallas. Although the anger was boiling, he also understood a great deal that he'd cared to consider before, and allowed himself to tap the steaming hood of the car absent-mindedly as thoughts turned to curious dreams.

If there was a love waiting for Killian, perhaps he'd be less willing to escape. He wanted someone, sure, but only if they were ready to run alongside him and not trail behind. The kind of lifestyle following his tracks since he was a kid required a partner, an equal, not someone unable to comprehend adventure as a key ingredient in life.

_And there's no way in hell she'll drag me line dancing either. _His lips twitched slightly at the thought of holding someone close and enjoying every tiny sensation of sharing a moment. _Only if she's worth the trouble. _

At that moment, rhythmic clicks began to echo a few feet away. He bristled, and muttered a curse. The noise grew louder. As it – or a he? – approached, Killian's heart ran into over-drive as he recognised the noises becoming recognised as footsteps. There was only one, consistent rhythm, however, so he squared his shoulder but made no attempt to hide or move.

_As long as there's only one, I can take him. One cop is no problem._

The lack of light offered shelter against the incomer. Killian wasted only a moment to prepare; ducking into a crouch beside the car, away from the under-slope of the bridge echoing the footsteps heading towards the car, and him.

_I can do this. Just one cop. Just one…_

The metal rod he'd been attempting to fix the car with rested a few feet underneath, so he reached out and swiped it into a shaky grasp.

Surely, there was a way out without involving killing.

He'd hoped to avoid killing unless it were completely inevitable. There was a large part of him that feared snapping and going too far. It would be unforgivable in his own eyes and in the eyes of everyone he loved and cared for. Killian Jones would disappear. He would be a killer. A cold-blooded murderer in the eyes of all. There was a difference between crime and murder, Killian knew this. He'd drilled it into his dreams until they felt like reasonable aspirations. Crime was selfish, he admitted this proudly, but taking a life was an irredeemable line he was unwilling to cross.

Unless it became the only option.

And then? Who knew? Certainly not Killian.

_Let's hope it never comes to it,_ he thought grimly, ignoring the slick sweat causing his grip to loosen considerably.

The pat-pat of footsteps tapped in parallel to his anxious heartbeat. Slowly growing closer, and closer, and louder and louder until he squeezed his eyes together for a brief moment, hesitated, and then leaped across the pathway and reached for the approaching cop –

"Oi! Hands off, _bastard!_"

Before he'd even managed to raise the metal bar, or even raise an arm for that matter, he swore as a fist slammed – unforgivingly - into his face. Searing, hot-white pain shot everywhere. Well, it _felt_ like everywhere to Killian, who was practically seeing stars as he stumbled back in shock.

_Hell of a right hook_, he couldn't help but admit as blood dripped from his nose and spread a sickening metallic taste across his lower lip.

He threw his weight onto the car, elbows flat on the bonnet as he rubbed his forehead and groaned. He forced himself to still. The pain seemed to burst only when he moved, so ignoring, and desperately hoping his attacker would seize fire, Killian leaned heavily on the car until his vision began to clear. Most likely a combination of shock and sheer force of the hit, he finally begun to gather his wits, and surroundings, when the white haze began to fade.

_Hold on._

A memorable feature suddenly stood out.

She'd called him a bastard.

_She_.

Highly dignified and definitely female, but there was at least now a slightly hopeful quality to his violent headache and nosebleed.

_Not a cop._

He breathed a sigh of relief. It quickly turned into a wince as a stinging flare danced across the left side of his face. There would be bruising. And swelling.

_And an apology._

"You cannot be serious. You want an apology for attacking an unarmed woman on a country back road? Go to hell, _asshole_."

Pain turning to regret, he only realised he'd spoken out loud when she snapped back a reply.

"Shit, no. I didn't mean to...I thought you were-"

He lifted his head, hoping to catch her gaze and apologise properly, when;

_Oh_.

_This evening really does continue to bear gifts…_

Not only was the owner of the impressive right-hook a woman, but she was incredibly beautiful. Tall, blonde and deadly in all manner of dispositions.

Who could blame Killian if, in that moment, he fell a little in love with Emma Swan?

He smiled, the pain a dull background noise to the woman standing before him. "Well, then." He offered her a winning grin and leaned back casually on the hood of the car. "Hello, darling."

_End of part 1._

* * *

><p>Hope you enjoyed part one, all.<p>

Part 2 should be up next week, and will be focused completely on Killian and Emma.

Leave a comment if you have time, thanks :)


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